


Like an Earthquake

by dome_epais



Series: If It Takes All Summer [5]
Category: The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dome_epais/pseuds/dome_epais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Supper is awkward, difficult in a way that Eugene hadn’t anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like an Earthquake

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Major Abner Doubleday, second-in-command at Fort Sumter: "When the immense mortar shells, after sailing high in the air, came down in a vertical direction and buried themselves in the parade ground, their explosion shook the fort like an earthquake."

Supper is awkward, difficult in a way that Eugene hadn’t anticipated.

It’s just soup and mashed potatoes and ham, nothing special, but the second they sit down and Snafu starts eyeing the silverware, Eugene _knows_ this isn’t going to go well. There are seven utensils at each place setting, arranged just so, like Laney always puts out for guests.

Eugene has seen Snafu stick his KA-BAR in a Jap’s mouth and then pry open cans of food with it five minutes later.

Snafu sits tense and still in front of his soup, sneaking unsubtle glances at everyone else. He puts one hand out, tentative and slow, dark in contrast with the white tablecloth, and then yanks it back into his lap when Mother says, “Merriell, as our guest, would you like to say grace?”

Snafu looks at Eugene, his eyes wide and showing the whites all the way around. He’s maybe never had to say grace in his life. He always found somewhere else to be during their meager holiday suppers over there. Eugene knows he doesn’t believe; or, if he does, it’s with a deep, burning grudge.

Eugene says, “I’ll say it, Mother,” and gives a little nod so that Snafu will copy the way he clasps his hands.

It doesn’t get better from there.

It’s just the four of them and Laney, bustling around with the plates. Eugene’s never been so aware of her presence, had her drilled out of his mind since he was a child. Now she seems to be everywhere, in his line of sight no matter where he looks, fluttering attentively around the table.

Eugene watches Snafu watching Laney. She keeps any emotion off her face and just does her job, like always. She’s worked for the Sledges since she was a girl, before Mother married into the family.

Snafu’s eyes track her carefully around and around the table, and then they scan over Mother and Father’s faces. How they easily ignore the presence of a black servant, as though their meal is appearing ready-made out of the air.

Then he looks at Eugene. Checking that Eugene doesn’t think about servants that way.

That’s easy for Eugene; years away at war make it impossible to take any ease for granted. It used to be that Eugene couldn’t imagine life without all the luxuries he’s grown up with, but now… Well. It seems ridiculous to try to start making amends for that now.

Eugene meets Snafu’s eyes steadily, until eventually Snafu starts sawing away at his pork, pretending they never struck gazes and nothing ever happened.

After that, the silence presses the air out of his lungs.

Mother and Father don’t say much at first, letting Eugene or Snafu start the conversation, and Eugene finds that he _can’t_.

He can’t imagine what to say to a Snafu that wears civilian clothes and hesitates on train steps and introduces himself as _Merriell_ with that empty smile of his. It all feels insane, suddenly; inviting Snafu here, tracking his address down, thinking that he’d ever want to see Eugene again in the first place. The only thing that Eugene wants to ask about is why the hell Snafu left him sleeping on that train, and he can’t lead with that.

What can he say to this frowning, distant man sitting out of place at Eugene’s supper table? What would he have said before?

A million pointless things came up during chow. Complaining about officers, complaining about Japs. Bullshitting about who had the better eye for targeting, who was strongest, who was going to be digging the foxhole if they didn’t shut the fuck up. Girls, drinking, the things they missed about home.

Eugene keeps glancing up over the impeccably clean table, getting anxious about not being able to handle _one guest_ that he had to threaten just to get here. He’d thought he’d do better if he could just talk to Snafu. He’d been wrong. He hadn’t been able to do a single thing since he got home, he kept getting stuck, like tires spinning in mud. Like humping up a hill so slick you fell down it again.

He and Snafu don’t have anything in common except the war. Now there’s nothing holding them together except Eugene’s stupid, naïve hope that somehow—

He’s sweating so much this fork is slipping. He’s breathing fast, and he tries to take a sip of water and just _calm down_.

Father notices, of course. It’s been five minutes of silence, besides the clatter of silverware on plates, and Eugene’s panicking and it’s so, so obvious. He looks at Eugene steadily until Eugene shrugs, suddenly needing his father’s help and ashamed of it. This isn’t the first social situation that Eugene’s ruined since he got home.

Father nods back, always understanding, always willing to help Eugene climb out of these frozen moments. He turns to Snafu, on his right, and asks, “So, Mr. Shelton. What work are you doing?”

It’s abrupt and graceless, but Snafu takes a moment to chew and swallow before he answers, “Fixing up cars,” and Mother sighs with relief.

Eugene tells himself to breathe. There it is, conversation started. Snafu’s staying until the wedding, two nights and two days. There’s time to make a better impression later.

Mother presses, “Is that something you learned before your service?”

“Yeah.” Snafu has a way of speaking, like you don’t know that you’ve asked a funny question and he’s not going to tell you anyway. “Did a lot of it as a teenager. That and working the docks.”

“Eugene tells us you live in New Orleans,” Mother says, relaxing now. “The docks of a port city must bring some interesting sights.”

Snafu smiles at her, sharp as glass. It raises the hair on the back of Eugene’s neck to see it. It’s the smile that means he’s trying to get a guy to punch him. Eugene knows a second before Snafu opens his mouth that it’ll be bad.

“Yes, ma’am,” Snafu says, eyes hard and even on her. “I’ve seen all kinds of things. Explosions and dead men like you’ll never imagine. I wouldn’t call war interesting, though.”

There is a visible impact on the table. Eugene is reminded of his mortar – the dull thud, and then the wait, and then the distant rumble of an explosion. You almost couldn’t hear it over your heartbeat.

It’s like that.

Mother gasps and brings her napkin up to hide her face. It’s not as bad as the first few weeks, when she simply left the room if Eugene mentioned the war directly.

Father looks down at his plate resolutely, not getting involved. Hurt in his own way.

Eugene can’t stop staring at Snafu. That cruel smile. He should have known that Snafu would do something like this. Snafu never could resist trying to piss everyone off.

Despite everything, Eugene bites his tongue. He wants to say _don’t._ He wants to tell Snafu to take a hike, to go peel potatoes until he got this rebellion out of his blood.

The thing is – if every commanding officer in the war couldn’t burn this out of Snafu, Eugene’s not going to do it.

Instead of any of that, Eugene sets his spoon down and says, with relative patience, “I never asked if you got on with your parents.”

Snafu sticks out his jaw, stubborn. “That don’t seem—”

“I didn’t ever wonder if you _had_ any,” Eugene barrels on, interrupting. “Because that’s none of my business, Shelton. Alright? But you’re in my home now, and all I ask – all I have _ever_ asked of you – is that you don’t upset my mother out of spite.”

Eugene glares at Snafu, and Snafu glares back, both of their spoons forgotten in the soup bowls.

Inappropriately, there it a modest bouquet of flowers standing in a vase between them.

Snafu looks away first. He studies the patterns of the frescos on the walls behind Eugene, and then he says, “Well. That seems like your place to demand such, Sledgehammer,” and he doesn’t say another thing for all of supper.

It’s a long, quiet time, because no one else has the courage to speak up.

When she has composed herself, Mother puts down her napkin and uses her most solicitous Southern Hostess voice to say: “Merriell, I just know that Eugene will want to show you to your room.”

And that’s that.


End file.
